


sing hey nonny nonny

by procellous



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (implied more than outright), Body Worship, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, I really cannot emphasize enough that there is no plot at all here, Laughter During Sex, Loving Sex, No Plot/Plotless, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex Pollen, Shameless Smut, because Theon worships at one (1) altar and it's between Sansa's legs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 09:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20928116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procellous/pseuds/procellous
Summary: The flowers are beautiful. Theon’s certain of it. They’re a rare bloom, according to Sansa; a harbinger of spring after long, hard winters. He just can’t tear his eyes away from Sansa for long enough to notice them.





	sing hey nonny nonny

**Author's Note:**

  * For [partialconstellations](https://archiveofourown.org/users/partialconstellations/gifts).

> Enjoy the pornography!

The flowers are beautiful. Theon’s certain of it. They’re a rare bloom, according to Sansa; a harbinger of spring after long, hard winters. He just can’t tear his eyes away from Sansa for long enough to notice them. 

There’s always been something about her that draws his eye—she’s beautiful, of course, everyone knows that, but there’s something about her that only ever seems to affect Theon. Something that makes his chest feel tight, something that makes him want to drop to his knees. 

Whatever strange power Sansa has over him, it’s stronger today than ever. He couldn’t look away even if he wanted to—though why in the world would he ever _want_ to? Sansa is the most beautiful woman in the world, and the way her pleasant, clean scent—lavender and a hint of old books and pine—mixes with the heady perfume of the flowers is enough to utterly cloud his mind with desire. The curtain of her hair brushes against his arm, soft as fire. 

He could kiss her. Her lips would be soft under his, and she’d sigh as he lowered her down, as he spread her out among the flowers, as he took her so slowly and gently that she went utterly boneless under him. Theon can almost feel the soft curve of her breast under his palm. What would it be like to taste her? Could he coax soft sighs from her, murmurs or moans, would she scream his name for everyone to hear? 

He’s hard as stone in his breeches, and cannot bring himself to care. 

Sansa looks pale, save for a flush high on her cheeks. A bead of sweat slides slowly down the column of her neck, disappearing under the heavy leather of her bodice. He wants to follow that bead all the way, to kiss its trail down her breasts and navel until he drowns between her thighs. His throat feels suddenly dry. 

“It’s rather warm today, don’t you think?” Her voice sounds strained. She gives him a shy, flickering glance. 

“Unseasonably,” he agrees. He’s roasting in his jerkin and doublet; Sansa must feel on fire under her heavy skirts and bodice. 

It shouldn’t be so warm, he thinks. There’s still snow on the ground—only patches, to be true, but there’s no reason to feel like they stepped out of Winterfell and into a Dornish summer. 

The back of his hand brushes against her knuckles. A lightning bolt strikes up his arm, even through his gloves, and makes him shiver. 

Sansa’s eyes are very wide and strangely dark as she quickly clasps her hands in front of her, worrying her fingers together. Her pallor makes her blush seem all the darker. 

“I think—that is—oh,” she says, weakly. “I feel—rather faint.”

She looks like she’s about to collapse. Theon reaches for her, concerned, just in time to catch her as her knees buckle and she swoons. 

“Sansa!” he cries. She’s surprisingly heavy in his arms. Even through her layers he can feel her heat, radiating off of her like light from the sun. 

He carries her into the shade, away from the open field and the sun’s weak glare; like a bride to her bower, he carries her into the shelter of a willow tree’s golden-green curtain and lays her down on a soft bed of moss. 

It seems an impossibly long time later that she blinks awake again, though it’s really not even been a full minute. Her usually-pale eyes are as deep and dark as the sea. 

“Theon?” she murmurs, voice half a moan. It goes straight to his cock, which is eager to remind him that she’s beautiful and _right there_, and their faces are so close that they’re sharing breaths. “‘M so hot…”

“I’ll get you some water,” he says, forcing himself to pull away from her, inch by inch. 

“Mmm.” She arches and squirms like an eel, her fingers scrabbling at her laces. “Help me take this off?”

Theon has never claimed to have great self control. It takes most of his focus to keep himself from salivating at the thought of loosening her bodice. He unlaces first one side and then the other, his fingers clumsy and shaking. 

She sweeps her hair away so that he can undo the clasp holding the high collar in place. His knuckles brush gently against her nape. 

The small gasp that escapes her is like lightning racing beneath his skin. 

He eases the leather off of her, letting it drop down to the soft grass beneath them. He unlaces his doublet and undoes his belt, tossing them down to lay with hers. 

It’s almost a race, then, to get out of their layers, to feel the cool air against their heated skin. She tears at her laces, pulling her gown off, and her petticoats fall away from her with a soft thwump of thick fabric. He tugs off his jerkin, pulls off his gloves with his teeth, and fumbles with his boots. 

Sansa laughs, bright and free as a bell, wearing only her stays and shift and stockings—Theon swallows as he sees the purple ribbons of her garters, on display now that her floor-length skirts are out of the way—and she pulls him up to his feet, her hands in his. 

Drowned God, but her touch is the only thing that he can think of. 

He doesn’t know if she kissed him or he kissed her first, but her mouth is on his and that’s all that matters; the soft murmuring moans and the way she nips at his mouth and her long fingers touching him—his neck, his shoulders, his chest; the touch is muted by his tunic, but no less potent for it. 

“Touch me,” she begs, writhing up against him, her breasts pressed between them. Theon could laugh; his hand is in her hair, another around her nape, her thighs are pressed against his. “Touch me, Theon, please…”

He lowers his hand from her hair to her waist, just below her stays. It’s a chaste touch for all that there’s only a breath of linen between his skin and hers, but there’s nothing chaste about her moan, or the way she pushes further into his hand; nothing chaste at all about the way his cock _throbs_, begging for him to push her shift up past her thighs and pin her down, to bury himself in her. She’d be so wet for him, so wet and hot and perfect; he wants nothing more than to bury himself between her thighs, his face or his hands or his cock, whatever he can, whatever she wants, just to hear her moan and scream for him. 

She pulls Theon’s tunic off, revealing the mass of scarring along his chest. She makes a low, hungry noise at the sight, pulling away from Theon’s mouth—he whines at the loss—to bite a bruise into blooming along his collarbone. 

All he can think about is Sansa, Sansa, _Sansa_: the way she whimpers when he skims his hands along her bare arms, the way she moans as he kisses her neck, the soft and sweet fire under his skin with her every touch. All he can think about is the want and the need that fills him. 

She pulls the laces of her stays, giggling like a girl as her fingers tangle in the ribbons. Theon kisses the curl of her smile, where her cheek dimples charmingly. 

“Please,” she whines as her stays loosen. He’s not sure what she’s asking for, but he does know what he wants. 

He drops to his knees, lifting the hem of her shift. She’s soaking wet, pink and open for him, like a rose surrounded by red curls. She’s sweeter than honey or the best wine and just a little tart, like her lemon cakes. 

He licks a broad stripe against her, his tongue flat against her folds. She bucks against him with a small, half-stilted scream. 

“Gods, Theon.” Her stays hit the ground beside them, and her fingers tangle into his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “Do that again.” Her voice shakes on the command.

His hands wrap around her thighs, opening her a little wider before he delves in again. He gives her another long, slow stroke with his tongue before he traces the soft petals of her rose with the very tip. They fascinate Theon: uneven and flushed deep pink, swollen with arousal, the softness of her flesh a delicious contrast to the coarse curls surrounding it. 

Her thighs tense on either side of his head, holding him in place even without the hand in his hair. 

She whimpers as he flicks his tongue across the little nub of her clit, cradled in her lips like a shell around a pearl, and she moans his name when his fingers slide into her wet heat. She’s so tight. He presses his fingers as far apart as she’ll allow them to go, and his tongue laps at her sweetness between them. 

“Please,” she gasps, breathless, “please, more, don’t stop, _Theon_—”

He couldn’t stop if he wanted to, and why would he ever, ever want to?

“So sweet,” he says, his lips moving against hers. She bucks on him, repeating his name like a prayer. “So wet and hot for me, Sansa, so good, so good for me.” He sucks on her, careful to be gentle, and traces the letters of her name with his tongue: S, a flicking curve that wraps around her clit and cleft; A, up one side and down the other, diving deep into her with tongue and fingers. She cries out with pleasure as she peaks, her hand tightening in his hair hard enough to hurt. 

Drowning in her might just be the best kind of death, he decides. He rocks back on his heels, gazing up at her as she sinks down to her knees, straddling his lap. His fingers are soaked with her, and he sucks them mostly clean. She might just be his favorite taste. 

“Fuck me,” she pleads, “Theon, Theon, I want more, please.”

_Who am I to deny my queen?_ he thinks, dazedly. She’s all but riding him through his breeches already.

He pulls her shift off over her head, revealing faint red marks from her stays and pale lines of scars. He kisses his way up her body, shifting them around so that she’s lying down, sprawled and gloriously bare, in the grass. 

She giggles as his kisses brush sensitive spots along her ribs, a high, clear sound like bells or birdsong or…or her laughter, incomparable, inimitable. He drags the scruff of his beard along her side to make her squirm and writhe against him, biting and sucking blooming marks into her skin. 

Her breasts—Theon could write odes to her breasts, sometime when he’s not so lust-addled that his only thought when he sees them is _fuck_. They’re round and soft, two pretty pink nipples pebbled and hard atop them. Someday he’ll spend an hour or two doing nothing but worshipping her tits, bringing her to peak from his teasing alone, but he doesn’t have the patience for that now. He takes one into his mouth, sucking gently, as he cups the other in his hand. They fit perfectly in his palms, as though they were meant for nothing else but for him to hold. He pinches her nipple, and her laughter turns to a whine high in her throat. 

“Don’t tease,” she says, looking down at him. Her eyes are dark with lust, and there’s a pretty flush on her cheeks. “I want to feel you, I want you in me, please—”

He forces his breeches down from his hips in his haste to obey, his cock springing free. She looks like a vision of pleasure, pink and red and pale against the green grass. Her breasts heave with every breath; her legs spread wide to reveal her rose-red rea between them. 

Theon kisses her, because he can, because he can’t _not_; kisses her with her wetness still on his lips, and slides inside her. 

She gives a little hitched gasp as he pushes in, and he very nearly spends right then, his eyes closing in bliss. He can’t tell if he’s making noise; all thoughts but her have been pushed out of his head. She’s every bit as wet and hot and tight as he knew she’d be, gripping onto him and holding him fast. His hands find her hips as he thrusts into her, gasping as she clenches around him with every thrust. 

“Fuck, fuck, Sansa, you feel so good, so perfect, I love you,” he says, babbling and far past caring. “Come for me, darling, peak for me, my Sansa, my love, let me feel you come apart.”

He brushes against her clit with a finger, and she moans as she peaks around him. It’s like nothing else, soft and warm and pure, perfect bliss, beyond any words. 

He reaches his own peak with a gasp of her name, spending into her as his head drops to her shoulder. His arms give out, elbows buckling under the weight of pleasure, and he collapses half on top of her and half on the grass. Next time, he decides, he’ll last a little longer and make her peak a few more times. He’s out of practice with pleasure. 

He’s exhausted and covered in sweat and his breeches are tangled around his knees and nothing in the whole history of the world has ever been better than this. The sunlight casts mottled shadows along the skin of her bare shoulder. Small, stubborn daisies peeking out of the grass form a crown around her head. 

She laughs. Sansa’s laughed more today than she has in the past month, and Theon feels a little proud of himself for it. “I never knew it could feel…like that,” she says. “I always wondered, you know, if women ever enjoyed it.”

“Mmm,” he says, eloquently. “Good?”

“Very good.” She kisses him, a brief brush of her lips against his. “I’m glad it was you. I think…I think it had to be. I can’t think of anyone else I’d trust with this.”

Tears sting at his eyes, and he blinks them away, rapidly. Sansa looks young, suddenly, young and uncertain and vulnerable, her armor lying scattered around them. She hasn’t known real love since her father’s death, he realizes, hasn’t learned to seek pleasure, hasn’t learned that it can be so much more than manipulation and power and pain. 

He thinks he might have forgotten that too, somewhere along the line. 

“Love you,” he mumbles into her shoulder. 

Her hand cards through his hair. He dozes a little, pleasantly sore and sated and tangled up in Sansa. He can feel her heartbeat under his palm. 

“You’re like a cat, all stretched out like that. Do you have any bones at all?”

“Nope,” he says. “No bones. You stole them all.”

He feels her laugh more than he hears it. 

“We should probably go back,” she says, but she doesn’t move and neither does he. “It’ll get colder soon enough…”

“Are you cold?”

“Not yet,” she says, drawing his face up to kiss him, “but we should at least get dressed again.”

He can think of several flaws in that plan, first and foremost of which is that getting dressed will mean he has to stop touching her, which is unthinkable. On the other hand, the ground is cold and hard, and going back to the castle holds the potential of doing this all over again, but in a bed. 

Maybe he can show Sansa how to ride him—her thighs quivering around his hips as she bounces on his cock, his hands on her hips to steady her, her hands on his shoulders to hold him down. His cock stirs weakly at the thought of it all. 

Sansa laughs to see it. “You’ve got at least one bone back,” she says, her pretty mouth curled into a wicked smile. “And I intend to take full advantage of it once we’re in a bed.”

“Greedy girl,” he says, grinning and kissing her for every word. “My perfect– wonderful– insatiable– queen. I love you so much.”

She kisses him back, her hands on his face and not letting go. “I love you too.”


End file.
